vanilla & dirt
by A G Moore
Summary: Samuel/Lydia, one-shot. Based between "Orientation" and "Jump, Push, Fall."


"Samuel…"

Her hand sought out his, thin fingers slipping between his even thinner ones. "You're too hard on him."

The man in question had left the tent in a huff, sent on some ridiculous mission for some ridiculous token Lydia held no knowledge of. She didn't know much about what went on with the mysterious Samuel Sullivan. She knew he was surprisingly tough. She knew he was charming and deceptively intelligent. She also knew that he had a gift, a stronger gift than any of those at the carnival.

Samuel still stared in the direction that Edgar left in, even though the man was long gone, taking long, easy breaths in an attempt to calm himself. "He needs it," was his concise reply, tilting his chin down to look into Lydia's heavy-lidded eyes. He hadn't let go of her hand.

"He's still torn up about Joseph. We all are, you included." She took her hand out of his and stood, grabbing for her robe. The fabric was like red liquid in her palms, and it felt wonderful against her skin, especially in this heat. "What's that saying? Time heals all wounds? That counts for everyone."

She could feel a familiar weight against her lower back, his fingers curling lazy circles in the silk. "I suppose you're right," he paused, and Lydia shut her eyes, "But this is necessary. I told him this was the last time, and I meant it."

"You said that last time," she said over her shoulder, her voice almost a whisper lost in the sounds of the carnival.

As if instinctually, Samuel's fingers slid slowly up her spine. She knew when he wasn't listening to her. He didn't put much stock in her advice. Hell, who would? She didn't spout wisdom like Joseph used to. She didn't run things like Samuel. She didn't have much wit to offer him. All she had was her body and the little womanly influence she held over the younger Sullivan brother.

"This isn't supposed to be a one man business," she heard him murmur. There was more than a twinge of grief in his voice. It weighed on his words, nearly drowning them in his throat. "It's the Sullivan Brothers."

Lydia turned towards him just as his hand curled around the back of her neck, pulled closer to him by the wiry strength in his arm. "I can't fix it," she admitted, as though he thought she could. "No one can fix it. Not even you." Her hand went to his chest, fingers splayed against the fabric of his shirt. It was so thin she could feel the heat of his body through the cotton. "It's gonna hurt for a really long time, no matter how many people you try to find to replace him. It's not gonna work."

Instead of focusing on her words, his eyes fell to her mouth, watching as she formed each string of sentences, mesmerized by each and every movement. "I know," he said finally, still watching her face closely. Her dark eyes, her creamy skin. Each expression she wore was different from the last in a million ways. He pulled her a little closer to him, close enough to feel her body against his. This was the comfort he needed. It wasn't an embrace. Even with his arm curled around her shoulders, fingers laced through her thick hair, it was nothing like a hug. "Keep me company tonight."

Something in his voice made it obvious this wasn't a request.

"Of course," Lydia whispered. Her hands went to each side of his head, bringing his face down to give him a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm tired. I'll… I'll be there."

"Thank you, Lydia."

Before she could reply, Samuel slipped out of the tent. There was business to attend to, no doubt, but she wasn't one to pry. She wasn't even bothered that he might not end up sleeping that night. She found that she was more comfortable in his bed than her own, though she hadn't the slightest clue why.

Tying her robe at her waist, she, too, left the tent, heading in the opposite direction of her trailer. As always, the door to Samuel's was shut tight, and she thrust it ajar, cursing to herself about how it was always stuck. She took a deep breath before slipping out of her robe and moving into his bedroom. It always smelled like patchouli and opoponax, and it'd become a smell that she equated to Samuel, a smell that comforted her almost immediately. Every muscle in her body relaxed as she sunk onto the bed, slipping beneath the covers and letting herself take in the scent of him.

She was sleeping when he finally returned. He wasn't tired, not at all. He very rarely slept, which was obvious in the heavy bags under his eyes and his lazy demeanor. Without taking off a strip of clothing, he climbed into bed next to her, his hand going to the soft skin of her waist. The feeling of his rough palm against her belly woke her, and she turned over onto her back with a sigh.

Samuel couldn't help but smile. Lydia was every inch a woman, from the top of her head to her toes, but in these moments, these candid moments, she showed an innocence that had escaped the test of time. A curl of a smile at her mouth as she opened her eyes to see him, a little yawn, her hand lifting from the bed to touch his face. Still half-asleep, she was nothing like the goddess she seemed to be in the daytime.

He didn't ask her how she'd slept. Instead, he curled an arm around her, cupping her bare breast in the palm of his hand. He buried his head in the curve of her neck, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh. She didn't smell like the women who frequented the carnival, all dolled up and doused with commercial perfume that drowned the senses.

No, her scent was one of the things that Samuel enjoyed most about Lydia. No matter how many nights he came to her or she to him, she always smelled the same.

Like vanilla and dirt.


End file.
